Wang barely had time to wipe the blood off his cheek before one of Big Chungus's bodyguards—a thick-skulled wall of muscle named Tito—stepped in front of him near the cage exit and jabbed a thumb toward the back hall.
"Boss wants you. VIP room. Now."
Wang nodded, still riding the adrenaline from the fight. "Yeah. Just lemme grab—"
Tito's meaty hand clamped onto his shoulder.
"Alone."
Wang blinked. "What about Rocky?"
"Boss said alone," Tito repeated, eyes blank behind a pair of cracked aviators.
Wang hesitated, glancing back through the cage wall. Rocky was leaning against the fence, cigar in hand, expression unreadable. Their eyes met. Rocky gave the faintest nod.
Go.
Wang exhaled, rolled his shoulders, and followed Tito down the hall.
The heavy steel VIP door was already open. Warm red light spilled out into the corridor, carrying with it the now-familiar stench of cigar smoke, expensive cologne, and sex. Music thumped low in the background—something jazzy and slow, like the world's sleaziest elevator soundtrack.
Inside, nothing had changed.
Big Chungus was planted on his custom recliner like a flesh mountain, pinstripe suit stretched taut across his bloated belly. Gold rings on every sausage finger. A fresh cigar in one hand. In the other, a crystal tumbler of something golden and probably stupidly expensive.
Two girls were still draped across him, same ones or maybe new ones—one brunette, one blonde, both high as satellites and wearing barely-there dresses that clung to their oily skin. They didn't look at Wang. They just blinked slowly, existing more as accessories than people.
Big Chungus grinned wide, arms open like a game show host.
"Well if it ain't Mr. Lucky Number Fuckin' Seven!"
Wang stepped in cautiously. "Didn't expect a one-on-one tonight."
Chungus gestured to the chair across from him. "Take a seat, my boy. You've earned it."
Wang sat slowly, keeping his eyes on the man. Tito shut the door behind them with a solid thud.
Chungus poured a drink from a gold-capped bottle and handed the glass to Wang himself.
"No poison, swear on my mother's tits," he chuckled. "Just a congratulatory sip for breaking the fuckin' house record. Seven wins. No losses. No deaths—on your side, anyway."
Wang took the drink, though he didn't sip. "Thanks."
Chungus lit a fresh cigar and puffed once before leaning forward, belly pressing against the table like dough spilling over a countertop.
"Now I ain't usually the sentimental type, Chang. But I gotta admit… you got my attention. Hell, you got the whole city's attention. Even the fuckin' slavers out east are talking about Jackie goddamn Chang."
Wang stayed quiet. Alert.
Chungus's grin widened. "Which is why I wanted you up here. See, I got a… let's say… business opportunity."
Wang's brow twitched. "What kind of opportunity?"
Chungus leaned back, ice clinking in his glass. "The kind that pays real dividends. Not just cash, not just booze and bitches. I'm talking about the real prize."
Wang tilted his head.
Chungus reached into the inside pocket of his suit and pulled out a sleek black card encased in a transparent polymer sleeve.
He dropped it on the table.
The light caught the holographic seal.
Wang's heart stopped.
Melbourne Citizenship ID.
Legit.
Clean.
Official.
"Holy shit," Wang muttered, sitting forward. "That's real?"
"As your balls are," Chungus said proudly. "Government-registered. Biometric chip. Gets you past every checkpoint from here to Hobart. New name, new life, clean slate."
Wang swallowed hard.
"Why are you giving this to me?"
Chungus puffed his cigar. "'Cause I like ya. And 'cause I think you're smart enough to know a golden fuckin' door when you see one."
Wang narrowed his eyes. "What's the price?"
The room quieted.
The blonde girl yawned. The brunette shifted lazily and poured more rum into Chungus's glass.
Chungus tapped ash into the tray.
"One job."
Wang didn't move.
"What kind of job?"
Chungus exhaled smoke through his nose. "There's a man. Red Beard. Runs a rival outfit near Glenelg. Slaver-turned-warlord. Got too bold. Been sniffing around my markets, poaching my people, making noise like he's untouchable."
He took a slow sip, watching Wang over the rim of the glass.
"I want him dead."
Wang stared at him.
Nothing funny about it. No punchline.
Chungus leaned in again. "Just one body, Chang. You clip Red Beard, I hand you the card. No strings. You disappear into Melbourne with a shiny new name and never look back."
Wang gripped the tumbler tighter. "You want me to be your hitman."
Chungus shrugged. "Call it what you want. I call it a fuckin' promotion."
Wang sat back slowly. His mind raced.
He'd fought for his freedom. Bled for it. He'd dodged bullets, fists, hooks, cleavers—and now he was being asked to cross a line he hadn't yet stepped over.
An execution.
Not a fight.
An assassination.
Chungus saw the hesitation. He smirked.
"You know, I saw someone the other day. Poster above the bar—old print, faded a bit. Caught my eye. Real handsome fuckin' fella."
He took a slow sip of his drink.
"Chinese guy. Spiky hair. Strong jawline. Had this look in his eyes. Like a guy who'd shot somebody important."
Wang's breath hitched. Just a little.
Chungus smirked wider. "Almost looked like you. Funny, right?"
Silence stretched.
Wang's grip on his tumbler tightened, his knuckles pale. His throat felt dry. There was no threat. Not directly. But the message was clear as daylight.
I know who you are. I know what you've done. And if you say no, that poster might just end up in the wrong hands.
Big Chungus took another puff from his cigar and blew the smoke toward the ceiling, like he hadn't just put a gun to Wang's future without lifting a finger.
"Take your time," he said, finally. "Think it over."
Then his grin vanished.
"But I do expect an answer… soon."
He set the drink down, the sound of glass on wood punctuating the room like a gavel.
Wang nodded slowly, the weight of the world pressing on his chest.
"Understood."
Chungus leaned back, satisfied, and gestured to Tito.
"Show Mr. Chang the way out."
Wang stood, pocketed none of the drink, and followed the bodyguard out in silence.
Behind him, Big Chungus lit another cigar.
The smoke curled like a noose.
Q: Would you accept the deal?